


Let Me Promise

by SwordsDivineLight



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alcoholic Chris, Gen, Implied Moira/Claire, definitely established
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwordsDivineLight/pseuds/SwordsDivineLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Chris just can't shake off his new alcoholism, and no one is quite sure how to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Promise

You're not quite sure what wakes you up at one in the morning, but when the door is aggressively rung again, you can only assume it was the someone at your door (How obvious), and blearily you debate on even getting up.

However, when it rings again, and whoever is at the door is trying to bust it entirely, you sigh, detangling your limbs from Moira's half-heartedly, your younger, smaller lover groaning in her sleep and rolling over into your side of the bed, reveling in your passing warmth and scent clinging to the pillows.

It occurs to you to grab the gun you keep in your nightstand, a simple handgun that has kept you through thick and thin. It's loaded, but the safety is on, and tucking it in the back of your fuzzy, drawstring pajama pants with sheep printed all over them, finally make your way to your front door where a hulking mass is jamming on your doorbell button.

You flick on the porch light, right hand reaching to hold the grip of your handgun, the left unlocking the bolt and flicking the lock on the handle, you open it, uncaring if it's some burglar because, frankly, you're armed and a thirty-four year old woman who has seen some things and taken down deadly creatures three times the size of a beefy human male.

Plus, you ration, 'Who the fuck rings a doorbell to rob a house?'.

You lean against your doorframe, hand still placed on the grip until you realize it's your brother. Reeking of cheap booze and looking a bit battered, but more bloody than anything- right eyebrow split, a gash in his hairline, split lower lip, and a bruise across the slightly hooked nose similar to your own.

He looks sheepish, ashamed, irritated, and embarrassed all in the package of a tall, grown-ass man with arms the size to rival tree trunks, who Sheva and Jill have told her, punches boulders.

You sigh again, noticing he doesn't have his truck, and figuring maybe he walked here. It's possible. After all, there's a small bar somewhere down the road, but you know without saying a word that he needs patched up, and he's probably at least smart enough to know he can't do it himself as intoxicated as he is.

"You didn't drive did you?" He scratches at his neck, making his way to your couch as you shift to let him in, sitting on the edge of the black microfiber.

"Still at the bar."

You roll your shoulders, going a few paces over to the hallway cabinet, pulling out a first-aid kit you leave there for emergencies. You don't ask why he was here in the first place, but you assume, with a hazy mind, still half asleep, that Jill kicked him out again.

You wish you could blame her- but you really can't. He promises to change, tries, and she thinks that with Jill's horror stories from Africa... She can't fix two people, even if she has been recovering for a while, and would even argue that she's fine.

_You know that she's strong, but you also know that even she can't always forget what happened._

_You would know- you still remember Raccoon City, Rockfort Island, Antarctica, and that Russian shithole where you almost lost Moira with vivid details, each plaguing your mind on nights that neither of you can really sleep._

Even for you it's hard to put up with. You're his sister- you've tried helping him- Jill has tried, but nothing helps. Even if you take him to rehab, you don't really know what they can do for him.

_What's he supposed to say, 'Hi, my name is Chris. I became an alcoholic because I work for the BSAA and fight bioterrorism everyday.'?_

You suppose he could, but aside from specialists that help you post quarantine, there aren't many therapists specializing in helping biohazard survivors. In part, you believe, because no one ever survives them.

_Not the kind you've been through, anyway._

You're not really sure that's the problem anymore, anyway.

_It's painful to watch._

You dig out the first-aid spray, giving him gauze to hold over his eyes as you spray each wound with the disinfectant. He winces, but doesn't complain about the sting.

Gauze dabs at the specs of blood, and you turn at the sound of footsteps coming down the carpeted stairs, Moira still in her baggy sleep shirt and panties, rubbing at her eyes as she makes out you cleaning the blood from Chris's face.

She goes to the bathroom, getting you a damp rag you didn't ask for, but realize you need, and with a peck to your cheek, mentions going back upstairs to sleep.

You lace up a needle, apologizing as you place two stitches in Chris's eyebrow. The gash at his hairline was a faux, and his split lip will have to heal on its own.  He has a few bruises, but is otherwise unharmed, and you briefly wonder what the other guy looked liked if your older, boulder-punching brother came away with as much as he did.

_You also wonder how badly your boulder-punching brother beat their ass._

You don't bother asking about that either. Or Why.

He murmurs a quiet 'Thanks, Claire' as you smear ointment on his face, taping a small strip of gauze to his forehead.

You hum in response, leaving the kitchen to get him a cracker pack, a bottle of aspirin, and glass of water for when he wakes up in the morning.

He knows your house well enough to find the small duvet in the closet, and without the two of you saying anything else, he shrugs off his leather jacket and bums out on your couch.

You turn off the lights, check that you've locked the door, and head back upstairs after washing his blood off your hands.

Moira stirs when you climb into bed, and welcomes you back into her arms. You press a kiss to her brow, and the two of you fall back asleep easily enough.

When you wake, first, as usual, and get dressed for a day at the office, you're not particularly surprised to find the water glass and cracker pack gone. The aspirin is back in place too, and if it weren't for the first-aid kit out, folded duvet on your couch arm, and the few specs of blood dotting your otherwise clean coffee table, you'd assume you were dreaming.

What does surprise you though, is that there's a note on the folded duvet.

Chris apologizes, thanks you for putting up with him, and mentions trying to find some sort of help to get him back on track.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, wondering if you'll need an aspirin too, and shrug it off.

It's the third time he's mentioned it- some sort of rehabilitation... A promise he tries to keep.

_You wonder if he means it this time._

_You don't think he knows how._

**Author's Note:**

> Well, should I write a second half or finish it here. It seems really unresolved, and I should try to tie the loose ends, but I guess that depends on response.  
> Anyway, I wanted to try a new writing style, things have been a bit hectic. I put my last rat to sleep, my dog that I grew up with to sleep, and now, after my family couldn't deal without having a dog around, trying to raise another puppy. (Damn, he's a nibbler too.)  
> Regardless, I hope you enjoyed, and I never played RE 6, and have no idea what even happens aside from a few spoilers.  
> (Let's be honest, I've played Revelations 1, Revelations 2, Code Veronica X, and 5 Gold Edition. I have 2, 3, and 6 that I plan to finish soon so I promise I'll try not to be too much of an idiot.)  
> In simpler terms: IF I FUCKED UP, PLEASE TELL ME ;A;


End file.
